


Forget, Remember, Forgive

by anistarrose



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stangst, self blame and low self esteem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 05:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17155904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anistarrose/pseuds/anistarrose
Summary: Stan expects to have a routine night working on the portal, but things feel just slightly off.





	Forget, Remember, Forgive

**Author's Note:**

> A Secret Santa fic for usuallyherdragon!

Stan awoke slowly at first, bleary-eyed and slowly blinking himself back to consciousness — only to leap out of his chair with a jolt as full awareness returned to him.

How late was it? How had he let himself fall asleep here? He needed to be downstairs working on the portal, not napping the night away —

From the sad-eyed owl clock on the wall, there came a single soft and reassuring chime, the minute hand reaching the bottom of its arc. Stan sighed. It was only nine-thirty, which meant he hadn’t wasted much time at all, yet he felt exhausted like he’d just pulled an all-nighter. He was going to need to make a lot of coffee, wasn’t he…

“Grunkle Stan?” Mabel’s voice nearly made him jump. He’d been so focused thinking about the portal, and the time, and the coffee, that she might as well have materialized right in front of him — a practical ghost, if only ghosts wore toothpaste-stained nightgowns and clutched grappling hooks close to their heart.

“Are you… okay? Do you need to talk to one of us about something?”

_Yikes, is it really so obvious how out of it I am?_

“Nah, don’t worry about me. I’m just a little tired — when you’re my age, you’ll be fallin’ asleep before your bedtime too.” He ruffled her hair affectionately. “Speaking of which, you should be gettin’ to bed, you little gremlin.”

Mabel smiled and elbowed him gently in the gut, apparently reassured. “You can wake me up if you need anything, I don’t mind,” she told him. “I’m sure Dipper won’t either.”

Stan shook his head as Mabel headed upstairs. Since when were the kids trying to become his personal therapists?

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the sentiment, he mused as he headed to the darkened kitchen. (In fact, he’d never admit it, but the knowledge that they cared for him gave him a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.)

The problem was that the warmth in his chest that the kids had sparked was accompanied by a sinking black pit of guilt in his stomach, because he could never tell them all the things that were really weighing on him. Because he was lying to them, because they didn’t know about the portal and he couldn’t tell them, not now. 

Shaking his head, he pulled a mug out of the cabinet, and then froze as he heard a faint noise from the other corner of the kitchen. It was a soft intake of breath, the type that would proceed a hesitantly spoken sentence.

Something about it seemed unbearably sad.

Stan turned around to see a gray-haired man sitting in the darkness, a mug of his own on the table in front of him as he gazed pensively at the battered wall of the Shack’s kitchen. Yet even in the dark, with only a side view of his face, Stan recognized him instantly.

His mug fell from his hand, shattering into a hundred pieces that scattered across the floor. But he barely heard the sound, as he gasped:

“ _Ford_?!”

***

The second night after Weirdmageddon, Ford had _almost_ said something to Stan at three different points. 

First, it was going to be “I’m sorry about everything,” but Stan was showing no sign of remembering any incidents of friction between them, and Ford just couldn’t bring himself to force those memories back. It would be for the best if Stan regained those memories eventually, he knew, but a tiny, cowardly, part of him was holding onto hope that they might never return.

Next, it was going to be “do you want to watch this recording I found of us as kids?” but by the time he’d gotten the first few words out, he’d that realized Stan was asleep in his chair, expression peaceful for what Ford knew, deep down, was the first time in a long time. At this point, Ford theorized, rest would be just as good for Stanley as exposure to items from his past. Sleep should have helped the memories settle into their correct place, to form connections together again. So he left Stan asleep in his chair, snoring softly.

Finally, about an hour later, when Stan was awake again and had made his way into the kitchen, it was once again going to be “I’m sorry.” Best to get it over with — so Stan would know what to expect as his last few memories returned to him, so they could finally go back to being brothers, so Ford’s conscience could finally be at peace…

But it was a difficult conversation to start, and Ford found himself staying silent. He turned away from Stan and fixed his gaze upon the wall, counting the stripes on the wallpaper —

Then in the corner of his peripheral vision, a mug crashed to the ground, and he jumped at the sound of it shattering. 

No longer was it an option to stay quiet. He sprung out of his chair and rushed to Stan’s side, putting both hands on Stan’s shoulders and searching Stan’s eyes for some spark of… of… of any emotion, of fear or sadness or recognition, that might explain what was wrong — because Stan was saying nothing, mouth agape and hands trembling in a panicked silence —

“Stanley?! Are you alright? It’s — it’s going to be fine, just tell me what’s wrong, okay? Everything’s going to be fine…”

“You really…” Stan finally stuttered, “you’re _real_? No, how are you — there’s no way you’re really here —”

“I am here, Stanley.” Ford wrapped his arms around Stan’s shoulders and pulled him close. “I’m here,” he repeated, gently patting Stan on the back. “I’m real, I promise. You don’t need to worry…”

From where Stan’s head rested on Ford’s shoulder, there came a noise somewhere between a sniff and a gasp — like a half-contained sob.

“But… _how_? How did you —” Stan sniffed again. “— get _back_ here?”

Ford let out a long, sad sigh. “Stan, I’ll explain in a moment, I promise. But… could you please tell me one thing first?”

“Mm-hmm.” Stan’s head shook in what must have been a slight nod.

“Do you know today’s date?”

“It’s June… June twenty-something. I think.”

Maybe it was something about the silence Ford reacted with that tipped him off, or it was simply saying it out loud that made it clear, but just a moment later, Stan whispered: “It’s not really June anymore, is it?”

“No, it’s not. You brought me back, Stanley. You saved me.”

Stan was silent, and with a sad chuckle, Ford added: “You saved me three times, really. First from the portal…”

“I found your other two journals,” Stan said slowly, and then with more confidence continued: “Gideon had the second and Dipper had the third.”

“That’s right.” Gently, Ford guided Stan to a chair, and Stan sat down without really seeming to realize what he was doing, eyes staring off into space as if fixating on an image from some half-returned memory. “Do you remember the second time? Honestly, in hindsight… it probably the most preventable —”

“Was that when you and Dipper almost got your brains eaten by a nerd wizard? I remembered that earlier today but thought it was just a fever dream or some shit.”

Ford laughed. “No, that really happened. Though the more I think back on it, the more convinced I am that you cheated with that final roll of the die.”

Stan shrugged, a smug smile on his face. “Sorry, but I just don’t remember whether I rigged it or not. Guess it’ll remain a mystery.” He winked.

“Alright, now I’m _sure_ you cheated,” Ford replied, and Stan snorted, but Ford noticed he wasn’t making eye contact.

“I don’t remember much of that third time,” Stan murmured, “and I dunno if I want to. I don’t think I do.”

He rested his head in his hands. “But I’m really sorry, Ford. I know I messed something up when you really needed my help, and I — I’m so sorry. I _know_ I regretted it before I forgot everything, and I — I —”

“I forgive you, Stan. And — and I’m sorry too,” Ford whispered. “It was both our faults. Except… except _you_ went and sacrificed _everything_ for us, while _I_ haven’t done a single thing to make up for what I did, except for standing around and feeling sorry for you —”

“Shut up, Ford,” Stan blurted out. “You would’ve erased your own memories instead if you could have — you said it yourself — and then I would be the one standing here feeling sorry for you. It’s not your fault that you couldn’t _erase your whole goddamn mind_ in order to make up for _correcting my grammar_ —”

“You remembered,” Ford whispered, but Stan went on, the words pouring out like some barrier had finally been broken:

“And you’re not just standing around being useless. You’re literally helping me get my memories back right now, but you say you haven’t done a single thing? Well, maybe I’m biased because they’re _my_ memories, but I’d say that’s kinda something important! I’m tired of you acting like you’re worthless, Ford! Ever since I got my mind erased you’ve been acting like I’m the only twin worth _anything_ , and yeah, the hero treatment might of been nice for a couple of hours, but — _one_ , I was still kinda amnesiac and couldn’t really appreciate it, and _two_ , you’re completely selling yourself short! I wouldn’t have been able to anything to Bill without you, so — so just—”

He coughed and wiped his nose. “So just stop being a stubborn ass and accept that maybe there’s a _reason_ I missed having you as a brother, okay?”

Ford opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out — and maybe for the best, since Stan whispered one last thing:

“And you did do something else to make up for your mistakes. You forgave mine.”

He got out of his chair to hug Ford again, and Ford embraced him back — it was the first time they’d shared a proper, _returned_ hug in what must have been decades, Ford realized.

“I forgive you too, Sixer. I hope that’ll make you feel… less worthless. Because I know what that feels like, and I don’t want you to…”

“It sounds,” Ford murmured, “like we still have a lot to work through. But it feels like this conversation… helped.”

“Yes!” Mabel was standing in the doorway to the kitchen all of a sudden, beaming with relief. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better, Grunkle Ford! I knew hugging it out was gonna be for the best!”

“Sorry for eavesdropping,” Dipper told them as he emerged from the hallway behind Mabel. “We got worried when we heard Stan yelling, but then when we got down here… it just didn’t feel right to interrupt.”

“It’s alright, kiddo,” Stan replied, then frowned. “But you didn’t get worried when you heard me drop that mug?”

“We, uh,” Dipper started sheepishly, “we kind of assumed it was just Ford doing…”

“Fordsy-sciencey-things,” Mabel supplied. “No offense, Grunkle Ford, but you make a racket sometimes.”

That got a laugh out of Stan, which Ford really couldn’t fault him for. “I suppose that’s fair. Now, Stan, I was meaning to mention — I’m a little tired of talking about Weirdmageddon for the night and I imagine you are too, but would you be up for some memory therapy about happier times? I found some old recordings from Glass Shard Beach — there’s even some footage from a certain Jersey Devil hunt in there.”

Stan’s expression, which had started out confused, morphed into a wide smile at the words _Jersey Devil hunt_. “Oh, that sure rings a bell. Was… was that the summer we got grounded?”

“It sure was! I’ll take it you want to give it a watch?”

***

It was an hour later, while drifting off to sleep, that Ford realized his conscience finally felt at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Wkhb zhuh wrr vohhsb wr qrwlfh Glsshu gudzlqj d slfwxuh ri wkhp lq wkh Mrxuqdo.


End file.
